Expect the Unexpected

by John A. Broussard

  Maybe I slept that night. If I did, it was only because I was completely exhausted. But I didn’t drift off before finalizing my next day’s plans.

  Isolated as I had been because of Eileen, I had still sat at lunch with other students when she was off swimming or dramatizing. It wasn’t too surprising to find how male conversation dealt heavily with females. What was different was to hear as much if not more concern with another topic—the draft!

  The most frequently expressed belief was the minor skirmish in Vietnam could not possibly last another six months, and the best thing to do was to hang tough with a college deferment. Another view was the service wasn’t so bad after all, and there was the guarantee of a GI bill at the other end. Yet another opinion was that the draft was going to catch you sooner or later, so you might as well sign up and get it over with.

  I decided to get it over with, like joining the Foreign Legion to forget. So, first thing in the morning, and without even stopping for a breakfast I wouldn’t have been able to eat anyway, I cranked up my old Studebaker and drove the forty miles to the Federal Building over in the county seat. They weren’t exactly swamped, so I got the royal treatment. The recruiting sergeant still felt obliged to give me his spiel about the wonderful experience lying ahead of me. Even so, I managed to get signed in and sworn in before noon—by a chicken colonel, no less. The last thing I was told was I’d receive my marching orders within days, maybe within hours.

  Before heading home, I decided I was hungry after all, having barely eaten during the past two traumatic days. The nearest restaurant was part of a motel complex and was crowded with lunch-timers. Even so, I managed to settle into a booth, and that was when I spotted them.

  Sitting almost directly opposite, and completely oblivious to me—and to the rest of the world—were Eileen and her companion. Today, his hair was combed for the first time since I’d known him. He was wearing a colorful Hawaiian shirt and was obviously being eloquent, since Eileen sat entranced, reaching out her lovely hand to put it in his.

  It took me no time at all to realize there had been no burglary. No exam copy had been stolen. Instead, the miracle had happened, and the delivering angel had been none other than Dr. Aemilius Remington.

  I can still remember hoping my call from the army would come through real soon.

  GOOD NEIGHBORS

  “If you don’t do something about your damn donkey, I’m going to call the police. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since you people moved in with that animal.”

  It was about the tenth phone call from our next door neighbor, and now Judy was really worried. Actually, I was every bit as concerned as she was, but didn’t want to admit it. So I came through with my usual reassurances. “Look, we’re in an agricultural area, we can keep any kind of animals we want to here. We bought this place to raise donkeys, and I don’t care how much Sam brays, I’m not about to get rid of him just because old man Ferguson doesn’t like the sound of Sam’s voice and is threatening to sue. Hell, his house is a quarter of a mile away. He should just consider himself lucky we didn’t decide to raise peacocks and guinea hens.”

  “I know, Wayne, but we don’t want trouble. I don’t want to get rid of Sam any more than you do, but we’re going to live here for a long time, and we should try to be good neighbors.”

  “How can there be any trouble? Do you think the police are going to do anything about it? We’re perfectly legal. We could build a slaughterhouse here if we wanted to. Hell! I might do just that. If he doesn’t like the sound of donkeys, maybe he’ll think twice about it when he starts smelling dead cows and pigs. And I wonder what he’ll say about dozens of cattle trucks going by every day with animals making ten times the noise Sam does.”

  Judy couldn’t resist being amused at what I was saying, knowing anything involving killing animals was something I wouldn’t even consider, regardless of how much it might discomfit our charming neighbor. “Lets be serious, Wayne,” she said.

  The argument would have gone on if I hadn’t stormed out of the house about then. And there was Sam with his nose over the fence, waiting for me to come up with a carrot or at least a good ear-scratching. I’d started off with a fascination with miniature donkeys, and Sam had turned fascination into affection. He nuzzled my hand and insisted on attention. I knew if I gave him half a chance he’d come right into the house behind me. No! I wasn’t about to let Old Ferguson intimidate me.

  Even so, I had to admit Judy had a point. We might be in the right, but how much of those nuisance phone calls could we put up with. And feuding with one’s neighbor wasn’t my idea of the idyllic rural existence I’d planned for my retirement years. Besides, as Judy had pointed out earlier, old man Ferguson might not be beyond poisoning Sam or even shooting him if he got mad enough. More important was our own relationship. Judy and I seldom argued, but this situation was becoming the basis of something serious coming between us. I felt frustrated and angry, knowing all the time she was feeling likewise.

  The subject didn’t come up at suppertime, but it hovered in the air around us. We talked about the weather and talked around it. It’s amazing how rain or snow or even blue sky can serve as a refuge from any unpleasant topics. Actually, on this occasion, the weather itself wasn’t a particularly pleasant topic, since the forecast was for thunderstorms, and we’d had more than our share lately.

  A predicted one showed up after nightfall, just as I was dropping off to sleep. It was one of those occasional treacherous ones the Midwest is famous for. Lots of lightning, crashing thunder, and not a drop of rain. I took some satisfaction in knowing Sam’s braying couldn’t measure up to the deafening thunderclaps, and Ferguson was probably wide-awake cursing the source of tonight’s sleeplessness. “Sue Him,” I thought.

  While the storm was incredibly loud, it didn’t last long. Still, I was grateful for all the rods attached to our old house. The way the sky had lit up, and the nearness of the lightning strikes, convinced me this was one night when we really needed them. I was almost asleep again when I sat up and began to wish the storm would come back. Sam was at it with a vengeance!

  Not only was he braying up a frenzy, worse than I’d ever heard him going at it before, but I could tell he was over at the fence line blasting away in the direction of Ferguson’s house. The phone rang. I didn’t have to guess who it was. The sound of the voice was as loud as the thunderclaps. “If you don’t do something about that damn animal, and do it damn quick, I’ll…oh my God!!!” The phone slammed in my ear, and that’s when I became aware the sky was aglow, and it wasn’t lightning doing it. I dialed 911.

  Judy and I barely had time to throw on some clothes and climb the fence over to Ferguson’s before Chief Martin and a half-dozen of his volunteer firefighters showed up in their brand new engine, unrolled a couple of attack hoses and quickly covered Ferguson’s house with foam. They couldn’t save the garage and attached woodshed which had been struck by lightning. Those structures were now mostly a pile of ash and charred timbers, but the house came out of it with only scorched siding.

  As the firefighters were rolling up their hoses, the Chief announced to us—the crowd of neighbors who had gathered to help—”We were lucky with this one.” Turning to me, he added, “If you and Ferguson hadn’t seen the fire and got us out when you did, the house would be looking like the garage.”

  I checked around for Ferguson, and that’s when I saw him. He was over at our fence line feeding Sam a carrot.

  GRUNT-GRUNT

  Some of the happiest moments I can recall from my early years were spent on Uncle Frank’s farm. I was an only child, so it was always exciting to be around his and Aunt Marthe’s brood of six, and I managed to spend most of my summers there. As a city boy, it was always exciting for me to be around the farm animals, especially Grunt-Grunt.

  Uncle Frank really was running a subsistence farm, though I certainly wasn’t aware of it at the time. Chickens, turkeys, pigs, cows, and an occasional horse seemed to wander ar
ound at will outside the house and outbuildings. He did make some effort to keep the animals corralled, especially the pigs, since they could, and did, dig up anything and everything. Grunt-Grunt was an exception to the enclosure rule, mostly through his own doings.

  Supposedly confined to a sty and run encircled by an electric wire, Grunt-Grunt had learned, early on, how the wire meant pain. But, unlike the other pigs, who had long ago decided the freedom of the rest of the farm wasn’t worth the suffering needed to get there, Grunt-Grunt willingly paid the price. When the urge to get out took hold of him, he would stand somewhere in the center of the run, start squealing, and head for the fence at an open gallop, hollering all the way. Head down, he would shoot under the wire. Once in the clear, like the White Queen in Alice Through the Looking Glass, he no longer felt any need to react to the pain, having already anticipated its occurrence. He would then simply wander off looking for whatever delicacy there might be around for the taking.

  Uncle Frank tolerated the escapee, mostly because the children—me included—soon made Grunt-Grunt into a pet. There were few things the animal enjoyed more then stretching out in the sun and having his belly rubbed, and none of us could resist the invitation. Even Aunt Marthe occasionally joined in. The pig not only announced his satisfaction at the attention with a noise which had given him his name, but his mouth seemed to turn up into a grin of pure pleasure. Grunt-Grunt’s life of ease—and continued survival—resulted not only from his escape talents and ingratiating personality, but also from the peculiar fact he stayed lean while his brothers and sisters put on the weight expected of a commercial hog, and were soon sent off to the local butcher.

  But then there were strange happenings down on the farm. Aunt Marthe was the first to notice. One morning I heard her say, as she came back in from gathering the eggs, “Frank! Something’s getting the chickens. I counted them, and there are at least four missing.”

  It wasn’t easy keeping track of them, since they had the run of the farm, but Aunt Marthe knew their nesting places and much of their habits. She wasn’t likely to be wrong about missing hens, though Uncle Frank was inclined to think they had most likely found new spots where they were now happily sitting on the next generation. Raccoons, which occasionally showed up in the neighborhood, were unlikely to want to risk tangling with Uncle Frank’s two coon dogs. The rare skunk usually announced its presence from afar and was much more interested in the eggs than in their producers.

  One day, when the disappearances had become so obvious even Uncle Frank had to admit something was doing-in the hens, Josie, the youngest girl, came running in to announce how Grunt-Grunt was behind the barn eating a chicken. Sure enough! Several of us who had rushed out to the scene of the crime saw the last of the chicken, feathers and all, disappearing down Grunt-Grunts ample maw. Naturally, Uncle Frank decided something had to be done. He told us once a pig started eating chickens, there was no way to break him of the habit and, furthermore—according to him—the feathers accounted for Grunt-Grunt’s slender figure. All the roughage made the difference.

  Butchering him for the dinner table was out of the question, for a couple of reasons—too lean to provide a good meal, and too likely to be recognized by the children. Uncle Frank could envision one of the kids, perhaps me, pointing a fork at the pork roast and announcing in an accusing voice, “That’s Grunt-Grunt!” So, despite the tears, Grunt-Grunt went off to the local auction, with only the two older sons and me riding along in the pickup.

  I heard Uncle Frank talking to the auctioneer beforehand. “I don’t want anyone fooled by my hog,” he said. “Be sure to tell the crowd he’s a chicken eater.”

  The cows went on the block first, which took a while, and soon we young ones got restless. Figuring there was time before the pigs would be coming out, Uncle Frank yielded to our pleas for a round of soft ice cream out in the lobby. It took a while too, and we barely got back in time to see Grunt-Grunt come squealing into the ring, looking for a wire to run under. The bid was already under way, and a dairy farmer Uncle Frank knew slightly had already raised a hand. Uncle Frank sidled up to him. “Didn’t the auctioneer say he was a chicken eater? I don’t want you to feel cheated.”

  The man grinned. “He sure did. That’s why I want him. Neighbor of mine let’s his chickens run loose, and they’ve been coming over to my place—fouling up the cow’s drinking water and just about everything else. I’ve warned him, but he keeps ignoring me. Guess I could shoot the pesky things, but that wouldn’t be very neighborly. On the other hand, I can’t be blamed if I have a pig what likes chickens.”

  We were sorry to see Grunt-Grunt go, but we figured he’d be happy at his new home with all the chickens he could eat and no one waiting for him to get fat so they could butcher him.

  Well, a lot of years have rolled by since those days. Uncle Frank and Aunt Marthe have long ago gone on to the big farm in the sky. The children have all scattered and, like me, have mostly married and settled down to raising families of their own. None stayed in farming.

  It was just last week when Dorothy and I and our three kids happened to be driving across the state to see her parents when I decided, for no particular reason, to leave the bypass and take a look at what happened to the old homestead. It was pretty sad to see a mall had replaced it. The only remnant was an enormous beech tree the developer had spared. It provided an orientation mark for me, and I could pretty well see where the house and barn had been.

  The children spotted one of the new structures, which had been built right over the location of the old pigsty. “Hey, Dad,” the oldest one said, pointing at the Kentucky Fried Chicken drive-in. “Can we have a Jumbo Bucket?” The others chimed in, and the unanimity—the lack of any argument over Burger King or Taco Belle as a preferred stopping place—was so unusual Dorothy and I gave in. Even the prospect of fried chicken leftovers for the next couple of nights was worth the peace we were experiencing.

  We all trooped into the dining area and were honored by the manager, himself—a tall, thin person with odd features. When he heard the order for a Jumbo Bucket of Chicken, his lips rose in a familiar grin. The small eyes and round face seemed suddenly familiar. For a moment there, I could only think of Grunt-Grunt.

  HI J

  Chester Johnson checked his watch as he stepped into the house. Plenty of time for supper before the chat session. Marge had told him to take the steak out of the fridge. She always insisted the meat cooked better if you started it at room temperature. Maybe there’d even be time to catch a little CNN news on the computer before she got home.

  It hadn’t been a pleasant day at the store. Old man Littleford had made another snide remark about Chester’s weight—as though you had to be a skeleton to be a hardware store clerk. So what if he’d put on a few pounds in the fifteen years he’d worked for Littleford? If the old man wasn’t always trying to crowd more and more displays into the already narrow aisles, there’d be no problem.

  It’s not at all like the Burketts moving Marge from the counter back into the bake room. Now, that made sense. Someone of Marge’s size trying to market cream cakes to customers already feeling guilty for even coming into Burketts wasn’t exactly good for business. But who cares whether the clerk you’re buying a hand rake from weighs a hundred pounds or three hundred pounds? The worst of it was Chester couldn’t afford to risk his job, no matter how irrational old man Littleford was becoming.

  The mortgage on the rambling old dilapidated house they called home was hanging over their heads, his credit cards were pushing the limit, and he was just barely meeting minimum payments on them. With no effort, he could see a dozen major expenses looming in the near distance, from an old clunker of a car which was barely getting him to work every day, to the almost inevitable collapse of the crotchety rebuilt computer he had bought for Marge. While he was contemplating his debt load he heard his wife’s heavy footfall coming up the steps.

  “Did you take the meat out of the freezer?” were the first wor
ds she spoke as she dropped her coat over the back of a kitchen chair and deposited the box of day-old pastries on the table. Chester grunted and nodded as he explored the contents of the box. Scones, chocolate eclairs and cheese pockets again. Chester was convinced Marge wasn’t bringing home his favorites—glazed donuts and cinnamon pull-a-parts—out of pure spite, though she kept claiming they were sold out. More and more, the day’s loot from the bakery consisted entirely of what she liked.

  As usual, conversation was minimal. While pouring the dried mash-potato flakes into the pot of boiling water, she asked, “Did you do anything about my computer? I just know it’s going to crash again.”

  “I called Jerry about it. He says the guarantee’s still good on parts, but he’ll have to charge for labor. He thinks the way it crashes every so often means it will need a new motherboard. I’ll take it in to his store tomorrow.”

  “You better. You know what it’ll mean if it goes down completely.”

  He knew.

  The meal was a silent one. Chester kept looking up at the kitchen clock. Marge gave her full attention to the sirloin, mashed potatoes and canned peas.

  “It’s your turn to clean the broiler pan,” she said, after finishing her seconds.

  “I’ll let it soak overnight and do it first thing in the morning,” Chester responded, adding, “I got time to catch the latest on CNN.”

  Marge snorted as she rinsed her dishes and put them in the automatic washer. “Why you bother is beyond me. It’s the same news, night after night.”

  Chester shrugged, rinsed off his hands and dried them on the dishtowel, then rummaged through one of the cupboards, selecting a package of garlic-flavored corn chips from the row of various flavors.

  He basically had to agree with Marge. The reports were pretty much the same—bombings and killings and hostage takings, with a few new wars here and there. He really didn’t look much at the news site. The chat room was where he spent his time. Checking the clock at the lower corner of the screen, he figured he had just about enough time to log in before Amber came on.